


Everyday Devices

by HolmesianDeduction



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drugkink, M/M, Medical Lab, Needles, Riding Crop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesianDeduction/pseuds/HolmesianDeduction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected encounter in the lab at St. Bart's leaves Sherlock and Jim in a dangerous power struggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everyday Devices

            Glaring at his watch, Sherlock Holmes leaned back from the microscope and rubbed his temples slowly with long, delicate-looking fingers, the loose curls of his dark hair hanging limply over his neck.  _Where_ is _he?_

_Carefully measured footsteps in the hall.  Quick.  Not too heavy.  John Watson’s footsteps._

            “There you are.”

_John’s voice isn’t right.  It’s too high and the accent is all wrong._

            Sherlock’s head snapped up, pale eyes going wide at the slight figure standing in John’s place, cruel-lipped, angular head cocked arrogantly to one side, legs slightly apart.

            “How did _you_ get in _here_?”  The growled demand slipped past the detective’s lips before he could stop it, and gritting his teeth, he added “Don’t answer that.”

            Jim Moriarty laughed, leaving his place on the wall to stroll almost leisurely over to the other man, the black fabric of his suit rustling imperceptibly as he moved.  “Oh _relax_ Sherlock.”  The name dropped from his lips with an air of bemusement.  “I’m here on business.”  When this failed to produce any interested response, he added, almost offhandedly, “I’d like to propose a temporary truce.”

            This produced the desired effect.  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in a way that he simply couldn’t have been unaware of.  Finally the words came, all thinly veiled hostility and carefully tempered tensions.  “What do you want?”

            “Oh _Sherlock_ ,” Moriarty took another step forward, bringing himself nearly nose to nose with the other man, his voice dropping to a low whisper dripping with smoke and broken mirrors.  “You _know_ what I want.”

            Inclining his head slightly to make eye contact with the shorter man, Sherlock was suddenly struck by the realisation that the other man was taller than he usually was.  Briefly, he allowed his gaze to drop lower.

            _Three inch cuban heels.  From the draping of his trouser legs, probably knee-high._

            “Levelling the playing field?”

            The wry observation dropped from Sherlock’s lips without a thought as the detective flicked his gaze back to the other’s face, only to end in a choked gasp as the Irishman pressed him violently against the lab-bench.  The table’s edge digging into his narrow waist, the Englishman winced inwardly at the cacophonous crash of thousands of pounds worth of laboratory equipment hitting the floor with a frenzied sweep of the other’s arm.  Dark eyes flashing, free hand clenching itself in the detective’s collar and wrenching a sickening rip from plum-coloured fabric accented by the barely audible clattering of buttons on tile, Moriarty brought his face dangerously close to the other man’s, an enraged hiss rocketing from between his teeth.  “Consider it levelled.”

            There was a brief moment of silence, broken only by shallow breathing and the sickening crunch of a glass slide being crushed under a boot heel before Sherlock found himself shoved roughly backwards, his spine bending at the waist as the shorter man’s mouth crushed against his in a gesture that was less of a kiss and more akin to an animal marking its territory, the master criminal’s mouth all biting teeth and half-snarled curses and barely contained animalistic hostility.

            “What—”  Sherlock attempted to speak against the other man’s lips, only to immediately realise his mistake as Moriarty bit down hard on his lower lip, the warm, coppery taste of his own blood filling the front of his mouth.

            Abruptly, the Irishman pulled away slightly, blood—Sherlock’s blood, still wet and glistening under the fluorescent lights smeared across his lips in a violently bright, scarlet swath.  One hand still twisted into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, the fingers of Moriarty’s other hand hooked themselves into his own necktie, tugging and pulling the expensively patterned fabric loose from his collar, the silk sliding through his fingers with ease.  Leaning in, he breathed words against the detective’s ear.  “Now do you understand, Mr. Holmes?”  A mocking lilt entered his voice as he mentioned the other’s name, and not waiting for a response, he urged the taller man up onto the lower part of the lab-bench before using a knee to lever himself up onto the edge, his voice dropping to a smoky murmur.  “Mmmn?” a slow smile spread over his lips as he looped the tie around the back of the detective’s neck, using it to pull him closer, “Or do I have to spell it out for you?”

            His narrow chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, Sherlock met the Irishman’s gaze for a brief moment before, using his elbows as leverage, leaning forward and dipping his head down, dry, slightly chilled lips brushing against the crook of where the other man’s throat met his jaw, then pressing firmly, then parting to reveal vaguely tea-stained teeth that nipped none-too-gently at the delicate flesh, drawing a sharp hiss from Moriarty’s lips.  Sherlock took this as a cue to continue, kissing the spot slowly, almost tauntingly, teasing the narrow tip of his tongue over the pulsing line of his adversary’s jugular even as the other man slid the tie up and slid it around before tying a hasty knot to complete a makeshift blindfold.

            “I’ve got something for you.”  The words were a low, husky haze of warmth against the detective’s ear as Moriarty pushed up his sleeve roughly with one hand, the other rooted firmly in the dark curls of the other man’s hair.  Shifting up, he pinned Sherlock’s thighs with his knees, holding the detective firmly in place before slipping a hand in and out of his jacket pocket as the garment was slid from his shoulders to the floor.  Tightening his grip in the Englishman’s hair, he leaned into the other man’s body, his voice low in his ear.  “Hold perfectly still.”

            Sherlock paused worrying at the Irishman’s neck long enough to tip his head slightly, his lips curling into a smirk that betrayed the spark in the eyes beneath the blindfold.  “And if I say no?”

            His mouth going hard, Moriarty tightened his grip in the other’s hair sharply, evoking a sudden gasp from the detective.  He leaned closer, his lips forming hard consonants.  “You won’t.”  Almost surprisingly, the Englishman held still, his head still inclined slightly, as if listening for something, and smiling again, Moriarty carefully uncapped the needle on the syringe, testing the plunger with his thumb before trailing the tip of the needle lightly over the tender flesh of Sherlock’s forearm, watching the fabric of the necktie move as the detective’s eyes widened, his lips parting in a silent gasp of surprise.  “Oh yes.”  Moriarty’s voice wafted over Sherlock in a low croon, the needle travelling up his arm agonisingly slowly, speeding up only when the Englishman’s breathing quickened suddenly.  “You know _exactly_ what this is, don’t you Sherlock?”

            Swallowing hard, the consulting detective nodded slowly, tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

            “Good boy.”  Sherlock winced inwardly at the lilting mockery that had re-entered the Irishman’s voice, but any protest on his part was halted by the sudden icy shiver of the needle sliding into a vein followed by a small cry as he was struck by the searing burn of the drug entering his bloodstream.

            As the needle slipped out of his arm, something within the detective appeared to snap and a gasp was torn from Moriarty’s lips as he found himself yanked downwards by the front of his shirt into a viciously forceful, almost invasive kiss full of teeth and digging fingertips.  In a desperate bid to wrest control back from his adversary, the Irishman re-tangled his fingers in the other’s shirt collar and pulled hard, sending a clattering of buttons over the metal table and forcing the Englishman to pause long enough for Moriarty to pull away.  Grinning up at him in a way that was less cheerful and more like a wolf showing its teeth, Sherlock’s normally low voice came out in an even lower rasp.  “And now what?”

            Taken somewhat aback by the detective’s sudden enthusiasm, Moriarty glanced swiftly around the room before his eyes lit upon an object sitting atop a pile of books that had evaded his reach.  A slow, thin smile slinked onto his face, and sliding careful fingers up the taller man’s sternum, he reached over Sherlock’s head to retrieve it before murmuring against the detective’s ear, his voice dripping with amusement.  “I think we’ll start with the riding crop.”  As he said this, he tipped the Englishman’s chin up lightly, a smirk etching itself on his lips at the small, strangled noise that ejected itself from Sherlock’s throat as the tip of the riding crop travelled down his chest lightly, straying from the curve of his sternum to graze the edge of a nipple and steal his breath in a sharp gasp.  “Molly told me about this thing.”  Moriarty purred in the detective’s ear, hooking a finger in the top of his trousers, pressing the knuckle into the small divot next to the protrusion of Sherlock’s hipbone.  “I always knew it was for something… _other_ than scientific purposes.”  Sherlock gasped as a few more fingers joined the first, the Irishman’s thumb deftly unfastening the button on his jeans even as the leather tip of the instrument teased over the sensitive skin of his stomach.

            “M—”  Sherlock’s lips moved not quite soundlessly, only to be halted by the quavering rasp of zipper teeth as the master criminal’s fingers drew the riding crop inexorably downwards.

            “Oh _please_ , Sherlock.”  Moriarty caught the detective’s earlobe in his teeth and applied just enough pressure to evoke a hiss of breath, his lips curling into a Cheshire cat grin as he moved down to the detective’s neck.  “Call me Jim.  I think we’re a bit past formalities, mmn?”

            Uttering what might have been a nervous, thready laugh, Sherlock squirmed slightly under the Irishman’s touch, swallowing hard and digging his carefully clipped nails into the other man’s shoulder blades.  In response, Moriarty’s teeth clamped lightly down on the Englishman’s adam’s apple, a low growl emitting from his throat when the other’s throat bobbed in a sharp gasp of air.  “The _doors_!”  The words finally ripped themselves from the detective’s throat as the shorter man released his hold to tease his tongue over his jugular.

            “They’re locked.”  Moriarty’s voice crooned the words into Sherlock’s flesh with all of the contentment of a cat in a sunbeam.  “We won’t be disturbed…”  His voice suddenly took on an edge of morbid playfulness, the tip of the riding crop playing along the angles of his hips under the unzipped trousers.  “Though you’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Deep down?”  He licked his lips, then kissed the taller man hungrily.  “You’d love to get caught like this, completely at my mercy…who would you like to have catch us, Sherlock?”

            Shuddering, the detective arched his hips slightly, drawing a bemused chuckle from the master criminal, who purred into his collarbone.  “What about John?”  Moriarty bit down on his collarbone and Sherlock could almost feel the blood vessels breaking to form the bruise that would almost certainly be surfacing.  “Would you like John to see this?  You pinned beneath me…cocaine coursing through your blood…you’d like him to see what your riding crop is really for, eh?”  He punctuated this with a stinging swat against the inside of the Englishman’s thigh by way of the riding crop.

            Uttering a sharp cry, Sherlock flailed an arm outwards, one long leg locking itself onto Moriarty’s hip.  His fingers grasping across the lab-bench, the detective curled his hand around the empty syringe, only to drop it again when the Irishman pulled him into a slight thrust.

            His hand darting out, Moriarty grabbed the needle before Sherlock could recover it again.  “Hmmn…”  Kissing his way down the Englishman’s chest, the shorter man jerked down on Sherlock’s trousers, exposing the alabaster protrusion of his hip, and grazing the tip of the needle over it.  “That affects you more than you’ll admit.”  Sherlock didn’t reply, and laughing, Moriarty dug the needle in a little against the skin, tracing letters with tip that Sherlock quickly became aware were spelling out something.

            _J-I-M-M-O-R-I-A-_

            “ _Jim_!”  The name rocketed involuntarily from the detective’s throat.  His hands fluttered downwards only to be caught and forced back upwards, his wrists grinding together painfully.

            _R-T-Y._

            The tail of the final letter dragged on for what seemed like ages, drawing a tiny, high noise from the taller man’s throat.

            Letting the syringe slip from his fingertips, Moriarty kissed the other man almost tenderly, feeling the tense muscles of the other’s body slacken, then tense suddenly as the Irishman’s fingers clenched against the bare flesh of the taller man’s thigh.  “ _Mine_.”  The word came out a hoarse growl against Sherlock’s mouth.

            Gasping, the detective kicked his trousers the rest of the way off, his slender hips arching slightly upwards at the encouragement of the other’s hands.  The Irishman suddenly paused, a thoughtful expression stealing over his features.  “Stay put.”

            In an uncharacteristically obedient response, Sherlock froze in place as the master criminal drew away, hopping lightly to the floor and pulling open drawer after drawer in search of something.  However, while the shorter man’s back was turned, Sherlock brought a shaking hand to his face, pulling down the makeshift blindfold to reveal pale eyes, pupils dilated and feverishly bright with cocaine intoxication.  He paused, waiting, then just as Moriarty turned back to face him, the Englishman launched himself from the lab-bench, crashing into the other man and sending them both sprawling to the floor.  Straddling the shorter man, Sherlock wrapped the tie around Moriarty’s throat and pressed his thumbs against the sides of his neck, his chest heaving in short, ragged breaths.

            Stars bursting in his eyes, Moriarty managed a choked laugh.  “Very clever, Sherlock.”  Gripping the detective’s narrow hips, the Irishman jerked him down onto his own, still-clothed hips, his lips twisting into a smirk at the very audible gasp that slid from the Englishman’s throat, at the slight loosening of his grip.  Not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s, the other man slid one hand from the ledge of the first’s hipbone, barely stifling a chuckle as the taller man’s eyes widened, his long hands unfastening button after button until, in a fit of frustration, he ripped open the shirt, sending buttons skittering across the tile.

            Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, the master criminal held his breath as he suddenly found himself covered in Sherlock Holmes.  The detective seemed to be everywhere at once: bony knees digging into ribs, long, delicate fingers probing and prodding every divot along his torso, lips and teeth and tongue moving in a haphazard, distinctly un-Sherlock manner across his chest, nipping and sucking and making the Irishman almost lose his breath as the pointed tip of the Englishman’s tongue teased the sensitive nerve endings of his left nipple.  One hand slipped down to his side unnoticed, then came back slick and glistening, his fingers smearing over the taller man’s thigh and ripping a heavy gasp from Sherlock’s throat in a long, teasing caress.

            “ _Jim_!”

            “Trousers, love.”  Moriarty’s voice was a low, husky rasp against Sherlock’s ear, and with another quick roll of his fingertips, the detective’s hands scrambled down to tug and pull at the slender black leather belt that circled the master criminal’s waist.  Within minutes, Sherlock had the expensive trousers shoved down around Moriarty’s knees, longer fingers caressing greedily, ripping a small cry from the other man’s throat.  “ _Sherlock_!”  Gasping the name, the Irishman caught his fingers in the taller man’s hair and pulled him upwards, kissing him almost clumsily and certainly without any semblance of tact, his hands grasping at Sherlock’s hips, which in turn, arched into his fingers desperately, his own fingers wrapping themselves around the other man, caressing and grasping, pausing only when the Irishman’s hand slipped further between his legs.

            “ _Oh_!”  The sharp cry that left the Englishman’s mouth was somewhere between a startled yelp and a gasp, the sound of it far too breathy in the detective’s ears.  Arching an eyebrow, the other started to withdraw his hand slowly, only to have his arm caught by one of Sherlock’s hands.  “Don’t you _dare_.”  The words came out laboured, as if each word took effort.

            Chuckling, Moriarty slid his arm through Sherlock’s fingers, his own fingertips teasing along the undersides of his thighs, urged on by the soft whimpering noises that escaped from the detective’s throat.  Leaning up, the shorter man caught his earlobe in between his teeth, his free hand gripping the Englishman’s thigh as he carefully slid one finger up inside of him gingerly, testing, listening carefully to the trembling gasps emanating from the detective’s body in much the same way as a mechanic listening for the fatal hiccup in the growl of an engine.  Then finally, it came, a brief relaxation punctuated by a soft gasp as the master criminal slid a second finger to rest beside the first, his fingertips twitching only slightly, but just enough to pull a ragged noise from Sherlock’s throat and send the detective’s carefully trimmed fingernails digging into his bicep.  There was a faint whimper as Moriarty’s fingers slipped back out and over the taller man’s thigh, urging him slightly upwards.

            Looking up from the other man’s chest, Sherlock’s pale eyes met the dark brown eyes of the shorter man, his mouth forming itself into a silent ‘O’ as the Irishman lowered him down onto his hips.  Clenching his eyes shut for a moment, the detective felt his breath catch in his chest as Moriarty pushed inside him slowly, almost gingerly—the gingerness being the closest thing to genuine care that he had shown the Englishman during the whole encounter.  “ _Jim_.”  The sound that left the detective’s throat was something entirely new, almost obscene in its raw honesty, and the Irishman was surprised to feel himself flinch at the noise.

            Above him, Sherlock’s usually agile mind was ablaze with white heat, his thoughts trying in vain to navigate their way around the blinding sensation of the master criminal buried inside of him, nimble saboteur’s fingers traversing his length in a manner that could only be described as subversive.  The feel of lightly trimmed fingernails grazing over veins exploding with cocaine and endorphins set the taller man’s lungs heaving and gasping for respite, his narrow, almost adolescent hips bucking sharply against those of the other man, fingers flexing into talons that tore at Moriarty’s biceps.

            His breath escaping in hisses between clenched teeth, Moriarty moved quickly and efficiently, only slightly put off by the other man’s drug-fuelled frenzy, the cup of his palm rolling over the wetly glistening tip of the detective’s erection with practised ease, tearing a cry from Sherlock’s lips that brought a smirk to his own despite the noises rising in his own throat.

            In Sherlock’s head, all of his resources were expending themselves in a frantic search for a word to describe his present circumstances.  He was no stranger to the various usefulnesses of sex, but he had always been in complete control, had intended to remain in control now—it was this sudden lack of control over the situation that confused him and sent his mind careening in a desperate scramble for information, or at the very least a way to wrest control from the other man.

            Suddenly Moriarty became aware of a change in the detective’s movement, as the jerky, almost spasmodic twitching of the taller man’s hips slowed to something more measured.  _More calculated_.  The thought flashed across the Irishman’s mind as a soft noise was ripped from his throat and he felt the fingers of one hand tightening against Sherlock’s thigh until he could feel the imprints of his own fingertips forming dark bruises on the detective’s pale skin.  There was a moment in which he was aware of his hand being pinned between himself and the other man, and then the next there was just _Sherlock_.  He didn’t know _how_ exactly the reedy Englishman managed to be everywhere at once, and he cursed silently at the soft, breathy encouraging noises that escaped his lips as the taller man pushed him into a raw delirium that was somehow tangible and felt as if the detective was coiling every nerve in his body on a winch.

            Abruptly, Sherlock’s teeth drove a machete through the already fraying cable of the other man’s nerves, sending every carefully measured ounce of control ricocheting through Moriarty’s frame, and when the master criminal finally came it was with his teeth buried firmly in the detective’s shoulder, a soft curse hissed between his teeth, his voice rattled by the aftershocks of orgasm.  Almost as soon as it was over, he was extricating himself from beneath the other man, hastily cleaning up and zipping his trousers before collecting the rest of his clothes into something resembling decency.  Leaning down to press his lips against the other man’s ear, he murmured, “We _really_ must do this again sometime, my dear.”  Mere moments later, he was gone.

            Sherlock remained stationary, almost as if stunned, for several moments, and then casually, almost automatically finished himself off without a sound before meticulously cleaning himself and depositing all evidence of what had happened in a locked biohazard box before even bothering with dressing.  He frowned at the missing buttons on his shirt, but covered them with his coat before swiftly exiting the room, stopping only to snatch the hypodermic syringe from the bench and tuck it into his pocket.  As the door slammed behind him, he made his way quickly down the hall and out of the hospital before anyone could get to the lab and ask what had happened to that much lab equipment.


End file.
